


A Mother Forgives Us All Our Faults

by Mandibles



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, POV Second Person, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett helps his mother grieve the only way he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mother Forgives Us All Our Faults

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a kinkmeme fill that I wrote a long, long time ago.

You find her in her room. It is silent save for the creaking of the chair she gently rocks in. You almost don’t want to disturb her, almost turn around, but—

“Garrett.”

Her voice cracks.

“Yes, mother?”

“Garrett.”

She beckons you with a half-hearted wave.

You crouch down beside her and look up at sunken eyes patiently.

“I’m here, mother.”

She doesn’t respond. Fingers run through dark hair, gently, as though she is petting your Mabari.

You lean into the hand that cups your cheek. You do it to make her happy, and that’s all that you want. You just want her _happy_.

She breathes, deeply. “My beautiful, beautiful boy.” Her thumb traces over your brow. “You will never leave me, will you?”

“No,” you reply instantly, knowing your lines far too well, “Of course not. I will always be here for you. I will always—”

The thumb runs along your lips and you don’t hesitate to kiss it.

Mother’s eyes flutter shut. “My beautiful, precious, little boy.” It’s almost a moan, but it is too quiet to be.

“Always,” you whisper. You drag hand over her leg, pulling her dress up with it. “Always your little boy, mother.”

This is when you begin to tremble, to panic. But, then, mother spreads her legs, granting permission, and you give a relieved sigh.

You push the fabric to her hips, revealing underclothes greyed from too many washings. Mother remains unresponsive, though she does shift when you tug her underclothes down to her ankles, exposing her to you.

You look up at her, your tongue aching for a kiss she will never grant you, a kiss reserved for a dead man. That doesn’t stop you from wanting it, requesting it with parted lips. Mother pretends not to notice.

Your eyes drop back down to her cunt and you reach out to it with nervous fingers. No matter how many times you do this, the pink folds are still a foreign vessel to you. The taste of it on your tongue, the feel of it on your fingers; they are odd things to you, unnatural.

You haven’t the heart to tell her that you’re more familiar to the taste of manhood in the back of your throat.

That doesn’t stop you from stroking her folds with your fingers. You clumsily strike the hooded nub and your mother jerks, silently.

You wince, because that’s not how father would touch her. He would never let the pleasure spike, your father. He would let it roll through her body, turning her to jelly.

“Forgive me, mother,” you whisper. She says nothing, but the hands nudging you forward say, ‘Try again.’

You pull your fingers into your mouth, moisten them with your tongue, because your mother isn’t quite wet enough yet. One finger enters her, then another. But, it’s when a tentative tongue circles that sensitive nub that his mother’s head falls back.

The female body is foreign to you, but over time you quickly learned what mother likes. Your tongue moves in flat, broad strokes, your fingers moving in and out, scissoring. You can’t imagine what she can be feeling, but the flush over her cheeks tell you it can’t be anything less than pleasure.

You’re hard. You always are. But, you can never touch yourself, never when you’re touching your mother. That would be crossing some thick, yet imaginary line that you just aren’t ready to cross.

Your erection throbs against your breeches as your mother’s thighs squeeze your head; her walls squeeze your fingers. It’s your cue to thrust faster, to otherwise turn all attention to her clit. Her body arches, tightens for her orgasm, until she groans and convulses and your tongue and lips are slick with her.

You make to turn away, want to, but she doesn’t let you. Her hands force you to watch her cunt quiver and twitch and ripple through orgasm, and you taste the bile in the back of your throat. Because this is your mother, your siblings’ mother, you father’s _wife_.

The last part hurts the most; you feel as though you are stealing father’s memory by doing . . . this.

Eventually, the creak of the chair goes to a complete stop and mother’s grasp on your hair lessens. She slumps, casts you away with a dismissive pat to your head. You don’t leave until her breathing evens, until she’s still and lost in a sleepless slumber free from father’s blood splattered on grass and seeping into the dirt.

You slip into your brother’s bed that night, because it’s just too hard sleep next to Bethany and even harder to sleep alone.

Carver opens his mouth, ready to bitch, but stops. He sniffs your collarbone and scowls. Your breath hitches in your throat.

“You reek. What were you doing?”

Your relief comes out in a sob. You press your face against his chest, sprigs of eighteen-year-old chest hair tickling your nose, and cry. And, Carver lets you.


End file.
